Dapper Carter's 8 Rules of Dating (2 page)

It was impossible to respond with her huge tits now pressed up
against my face suffocating me.

“Tell me what you want me to do, Daddy?” she begged as
she straddled me grinding her pussy against my awakened bulge. My dick was
harder than Chinese arithmetic. 

“Do it all and I’ll tell you when to stop.” I
couldn’t help but to caress the softness of her pistachio-colored skin. Her
butt felt delicate like tissue paper underneath my sweaty fingers. For once I
had enough money to afford her and Cheetah, the snow bunny with tiger paw
prints tattooed up and down her milky white thighs.  Baby girl was doing
deep throat tricks with a longneck Corona bottle that was very impressive. 
That girl got talent.
 

I glanced over at Caesar to let him know that it was
time to jet, but the only thing I could see was the back of his head buried between
Miss Peanut Butta’s tig ol’ bitties.  I tapped him on the shoulder and
gave him the same look we’ve been giving each other for over twenty years when
it was time for the jump-off. He was with it, of course.  That’s my nigga
and he was the best wingman a guy could ask for. No fuss, no muss as long as he
was getting hit off too.

Why Not?

We took the party back to her apartment in the Towers
across from Penn Station. A lot of the strippers lived there so they could easily
get in and out of the city, depending on where they were dancing that evening. 
Not to mention Newark had some of the best stripper fashion to choose from
right there on Broad Street. 

But first we had to make a stop at Kennedy Fried
Chicken to pick up a fifty piece of Buffalo wings. Nothing soaks up alcohol
better than wings and greasy fries. We knew food would be an afterthought once
we got to the crib, so we devoured them right there in Cez’s diamond white S65
AMG Benz ($211,000) with customized black leather Coach seats.   He
usually drove the Benz when he wanted to floss. The Escalade was reserved for
hanging out with the fellas and the red Ducati 848 Evo was just because. He
called it justification for higher education.   

Nonetheless, he wasn’t very happy about us eating in
his baby, but fuck him because he’s the same guy that would let a chick smoke
crack in his car if he thought he was gonna get a blowjob.

Cez brought along another dancer from the club that I
called Heroin
because
she was killing niggas
.  We also needed
to pick up a bottle of Patron, a liter of Hennessey, and a twelve- pack of
Coronas. Heroin had her own “party favors” and my concubine had weed at the
crib as the Coup de grâce.

When we got there it wasn’t what I expected. It
wasn’t
the love den of iniquity. It
wasn’t
a lair of S&M. It
wasn’t
a
fortress of bondage. It was quaint and neat, not like the wreck I was
accustomed to whenever flight attendants shared an apartment. They would have
six girls sharing a place, splitting the rent, and no more than two would
usually be there at once. But the unit was always a wreck because they turned
around and were headed back to the airport so quickly not leaving time for
anyone to do the cleaning.  Dirty chicks are such a turn-off.

Baton Rouge
’s place was antiseptic and spotless
like a hotel room. Everything was in its place and it had a light, airy feel
being set off by shades of yellow, orange, and tan. But that changed quickly.

“Who’s ready for some drinks?” 

Caesar announced trying to get the party started.

“You know what I want, Daddy,” Heroin anxiously  replied.
 

She and Caesar had hooked up plenty of times which
gave him no reason to fuck around wasting time with Cheetah or Miss Peanut
Butta as far as he was concerned.  Caesar lined up four shots of Patron,
four Coronas to chase it, and four Hennessey’s to chase all that.

We raised our glasses in a bullshit toast. 
“Let’s pour a little out for the hos who ain’t here.”  Caesar declared. 
“I’m just joking.  If you pour that ‘gnac out I will kill all of
you.” 

We didn’t go through that lick your hand then suck a
lemon shit with the Patron shots.  We each took the five ounces of agave
straight to the head then followed up by chugging as much of a Corona as we could.  Last we each took a healthy swig of Hennessey right out of the
bottle. 

Feeling good and ready for more we each grabbed our
glass and took it into the living room to listen to some music and whatever
else that would come along with it.

The multi-faceted Heroin had a talent for rolling a
blunt with one hand while she slowly but firmly gripped Caesar’s manhood
through his pants with the other hand.

While we smoked, drank, and rode the white horse,
the girls put on some music to show off some of their salacious new moves. They
got off to some crazy hip-hop tracks that I hadn’t even heard yet.  Strippers
were my barometer of what was going to be hot in the streets. If strippers liked
it, it was going to be a hit.

After a few songs of “dropping it,” and “booty
clapping” the girls became bored and things quickly turned pornographic. Baton Rouge and Heroin started kissing heavily before taking turns eating one another out
on the chaise longue for our entertainment.  Cez and I smiled at one another,
trying to recount how many times we had been in this exact same position…during
that year alone! Caesar still had about $500 in $20 bills, so he continued to
shower the girls with dead presidents just for kicks.

After fifteen minutes or so of preliminaries we
robotically peeled off our clothes and made our way to separate ends of the
couch.

 Heroin dropped to her knees in front of Caesar,
unzipped his pants, and then instinctively plunged his pink and brown pole
inside her mouth.   She looked like she was trying to commit suicide
by stabbing herself repeatedly with a blunt instrument in the back of her
throat.  Heroin was what we liked to call a brain surgeon and she enjoyed sucking
dick more than any girl I had ever met. I knew this to be true because she
broke me off the week before.

Baton Rouge decided she had enough and sprawled herself
over the arm of the couch, presenting her perfect brownish-pink love canal which
was pleading for the unyielding eight and a half inches I had for her.

I tenaciously grabbed a handful of her wavy locks, wrangled
them, and then pulled, triggering her to arch her muscular back.

“You like that don’t you?!” 

“You know I do, Daddy.”

“Say you’re a dirty fucking whore.”

“I’m a dirty fucking whore,” she whimpered.  

She liked it rough and so did I. But I liked it even
rougher than that.

With the one hand entangled in her locks, I took the
other hand, ripped open the condom package with my teeth, and stretched the
prophylactic on my impressive erection.

Without hesitation or warning, I thrust my rocket
deep into her vast Milky Way. She yelped with delight.  With each thrust I
could feel myself going deeper inch by exciting inch into her never ending
tunnel.  She expanded and contracted her sugar walls with each stroke extracting
the nut from my overworked muscle.  I fucked her hard, amused to hear the
sound of my balls relentlessly slapping against her well-developed backside.   I
tried with every enthusiastic plunge to drill my dick through her writhing body
and out her panting mouth.  She howled in rapture. 

I chased her into the corner of the sofa, still on
all fours, with my greedy cock so she couldn’t run anywhere as I mercilessly
pummeled her juicy punaani into submission like a piece of raw meat.

Caesar had long stopped Heroin from her sixty-eight
and I owe you one. 

“Hey dawg, ain’t it time for that switch?”

“Naw son, I’m good.”

We usually do switch up but not this time.  I
was in a groove and didn’t want to interrupt my flow.  I sadistically slid
my hands around her delicate throat and began to squeeze, constricting her airflow.
I fucked her like she stole something while she gasped, gagged, and flopped
around like a big mouth bass.  Until she went limp. At first I thought she
was fooling around, but after several seconds fear crept up my spine.
Oh
shit, did I kill her?

Finally, she gasped, recruiting as much oxygen as
possible to fill her almost lifeless body and scaring the shit out of me as
well.  Then she broke out into a hearty laugh.  That was her thing
and she loved that shit so I had no trouble obliging.

Cez and Heroin had stopped what they were doing to
watch us. I was more of a voyeur than an exhibitionist, but I didn’t mind the
two of them spying on Baton Rouge and me.

“Can I go next?” Heroin pleaded. 
Why not
?

I Wonder If I Take You Home

I got home just as the sun started to rise on my
modest, Colonial style house in Edison Township. The house that was actually in
my wife’s name. 

Stillness blanketed the Oak lined cul de sacs and
manicured lawns of central New Jersey. Each Colonial in the neighborhood was a
clone of the next. The gas guzzling SUVs and carpool-friendly minivans of upper
middle class life peppered the New York City suburb.  The toughest
decision here was whether to buy the Dodge Caravan or the Kia Sedona and who
would be hosting the next neighborhood watch meeting.

I was still fucked up and my clothes were crumpled,
looking like I was in bar fight rather than the pussy-cat fight I had actually
participated in. I had fresh, deep, tiger-like scratches on my back that I had
no idea how I was going to explain. I usually went to bed shirtless, so wearing
a sweatshirt to bed would surely send up a red flag to my already distrusting
wife.

I struggled to choreograph the simple task of
placing one foot in front of the next, causing me to stumble up the six steps
leading to the front door. I stopped, momentarily recalling how I never liked
the flower pot of Azaleas by the front door, so I decided that I would give
them a little energy drink and pissed out the Grey Goose and Red Bull I had been
consuming hours earlier onto them.

After I finished showering Kennedy’s plants I
finally tried to enter the house, but as I turned the door knob, it unexpectedly
and violently swung open. As a matter of fact, it swung open so violently that
my shoulder was almost ripped from the socket. It was obvious that she had
waited up all night for my return.

KC had the sweetest, most angelic face you’ve ever
seen…if it weren’t so pissed off. Her eyes were beet red and her lip quivered
uncontrollably.  They were puffy and swollen, indicating that she had been
crying for hours. I noticed how she had her tiny little fist clenched next to
her side like she may actually swing on me.  

I remembered the first time I laid eyes on her. We
had a dance at my high school, Saint Vincent, and the surrounding area private
schools were also allowed to be there. That’s why we had girls from the three
neighboring all-female high schools in attendance, which contributed to our
teenage hormones raging at these dances. It was my junior year and I was pretty
introverted, even though I was becoming a budding basketball star averaging
just under twenty points per game.  In spite of this, my bashfulness kept
me from getting the attention and notoriety other athletes had.

Lisa Lisa’s “I Wonder If I Take You Home” started to
play and I caught a glimpse of my angel stand up and start to sway to the melody.

She was tiny, standing only five foot and three
inches, but solid. She was also a gymnast and a cheerleader, so she had
powerfully built legs for her tumbling and somersaults she had to perform. Her
auburn hair was curly and her chestnut eyes were inviting.  She had a
broad, cheeky smile that was contagious.

Kennedy was an angel in every sense of the word. She
sang in the glee club, read to the elderly, and fed the homeless in her spare
time. She was the type of wife that if you mentioned you wanted something, the
next day she would have it for you.

I tapped my boy Trace, the star of the team, and
asked him to let Kennedy know that I wanted to dance with her. I was taking a
chance by sending the future Arizona All-American over to speak to her.  Most
girls gushed over him and he always got what he wanted.

Despite that, she was unimpressed with him as well
as my lack of courage, stating that if I want to dance with her I would have to
ask her myself. Reluctantly, I began that
looooong
walk, dreading the
possibility of her turning me down and having to take that
loooong
walk
back across the dance floor to stand against the wall.

Halfway into my hike across the gymnasium floor my
legs grew heavy like I was dragging two tree trunks.  My palms were sweaty
and my mouth was dry.  My fight or flight response was in full effect and
it took everything for me not to act upon the latter.   I desperately
needed a sip of water so my tongue could cooperate with the roof of my mouth. I
stopped off at the water fountain and lapped up as much of the thirst-quencher as
I could handle.